Page 8 of Mail-Order Lady

She looked up when they entered, and her face opened with a joy so immediate and unguarded that Clara’s chest tightened. Mother rose from her chair with a grace that hadn’t diminished despite the journey, despite her age, despite everything.

“Clara.” She stepped forward, both hands extended.

Clara hesitated a heartbeat before she took them. She had to keep her defenses strong.

Her mother’s hands felt like they always had—soft and certain. She held Clara at arm’s length for a moment, her dark eyes moving over her face with an expression Clara couldn’t have put into words precisely—relief and assessment and something that might be love, whatever complicated architecture surrounded it.

“You look wonderful.” Her mother’s voice was low, pitched for Clara alone. “Truly.”

“So do you, Mama.” The endearment slipped out before she could stop it. She never called her mother Mama anymore—hadn’t in years.

Her mother’s eyes turned glassy, and she blinked as she released Clara and turned to the others.

Robert stepped forward first. “Mrs. McKinney.” He inclined his head with the formal courtesy he wore like armor. “I’m Robert Balfour.”

“Mr. Balfour.” Her mother took his hand with both of hers—a gesture of warmth she’d used a hundred times before. “Thank you so much for bringing my Clara safely to me.”

The words were perfect. The tone was perfect. Everything about her mother’s manner toward Robert was gracious and utterly charming. But she always had an underlying motive.

Clara’s middle twisted.

“This is Mrs. Wang.” Robert motioned to the older woman beside him. “She works with us on the ranch.”

“Mrs. Wang.” Mother extended her hand. “How lovely to meet you. I’m so grateful Clara has had a respectable companion.”

Bea accepted the handshake with a small nod, her expression pleasant but not overly friendly. “Mrs. McKinney.”

“Please, sit.” Mother gestured to the table.

“Thank you.” Clara took the chair Robert pulled out for her.

He’d positioned himself between her and her mother. A small thing. Maybe even unconscious. But it steadied something in her chest.

Her mother resumed her seat with the same fluid grace.

A woman approached to take their order, and for a few moments, they busied themselves with the small rituals of settling in.

Her mother asked about the journey from the ranch. Clara answered with safe details—the weather, the roads, how long it had taken. Robert added a comment here and there, his tone perfectly polite and utterly unrevealing.

Bea said almost nothing, but her presence felt like a solid ground.

The food came, and her mother told of her own journey. Three weeks from Columbia to St. Louis aboard trains, which had been taxing but manageable. The steamship from St. Louis had taken another two months, with one delay near Yankton when the water ran lower than expected. She’d had a decent cabin, adequate company, and a very capable porter named Samuel who had managed her trunks with more care than she’d expected.

Clara made sure to ask the right questions. It always seemed a marvel how easy this version of her mother came. The warm one. The one who laughed at her own discomforts and made everyone at the table feel that they were the most interesting people she’d encountered in months.

Then Mother set down her fork and looked at Clara with an expression that shifted so smoothly Clara almost didn’t catch it.

“And Kate?” Mother’s tone held exactly the right note of maternal concern. “How is she? I’ve brought some of her mother’s belongings. Things Richard always meant for her to have.”

The words were kind. The sentiment generous. But something in the way her mother said her mother’s belongings made Clara’s insides tighten. As if Kate’s mother had been a stranger, not the woman her father had loved first.

“Kate is well.” Clara kept her voice even. “She’s settled at the ranch. Married, actually.” Better not to speak of the coming babe, lest her mother make an assumption about the reason for their hasty marriage. A reason that wasn’t true.

“Married.” Her mother’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or calculation. “To whom?”

“Thomas Balfour. Robert’s brother.”

Her mother’s gaze shifted to Robert, then back to Clara. The smile stayed in place, but her fingers had whitened around her fork. “I see. How…fortuitous.”